


Gammel kjærleik rustar ikkje

by illicio



Category: Hustle Cat
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6309052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicio/pseuds/illicio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary updated since Hustle Cat has been out for a while and the premise is no longer a huge spoiler.  All stories I write pertaining to Graves and Nacht's past will be compiled in this work as subsequent chapters for the sake of not cluttering the tag with my garbage.</p><blockquote>
  <p>"I need to leave, you know."</p>
  <p>"Don't got to."</p>
  <p>"I do have my own place."</p>
  <p>"Here I thought ya shared."</p>
  <p>"I pay rent there."</p>
  <p>"Could do that here."</p>
  <p>Graves snorts—a stifled, undignified sound that shakes his shoulders and has him prying at the arm around him, trying to free himself.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  
  
One of them would have to die.

Sour-metal taste, this solution he's not inclined to take, but what else is there? His options are exhausted. He can relate: lying sleepless, staring at a ceiling he doesn't see; remembering things that no longer exist like old fingerprints, evidence long-scrubbed from the surface. Would that he were an object like a table, a sheet of glass, a candle, anything so long as it wasn't alive. At least then he wouldn't have to live with these memories on his skin. 

  
  
  


Fingertips tap, silent and firm: thumb-and-ring, ring, middle-and-ring, ring, thumb-ring, ring, middle-ring. They repeat the measure—again. And again. And ag—

"You're doing this on purpose."

—ain. And again—and again—and again— _pinky_ -thumb, ring, middle-ring—

"You know I can't stand this song."

—ring, thumb-ring, _slap!_

Sharp snap of hand-on-flesh—or hand-to-wrist. 

Graves heaves a sigh, working to free himself from the arm curled around him, playing his chest like a drum. Its owner allows its removal, voice a low and lazy drawl behind his ears. "Is that right?"

"Don't pretend."

"Aw, c'mon. I forgot."

"I don't believe that."

"I'll play somethin' else."

"I'd prefer you play dead. Let me rest." 

But the frost in his tone never matches the icy colour of his right eye. He slips his palm against the back of Nacht's, lacing their fingers together. Let him touch. He'll not wring another song out of Graves tonight.

  
  
  


Sometimes the stakes were higher, when the touch coal-hot burning a brand into his stomach; forcing his breath to hitch as it groped lower; heat clawing into his ribcage, chasing his heart around some erratic beat. The type of touch that wouldn't back off. A touch you didn't tell No, because what would you do if it didn't stop?

What if it did?

Which would be worse?

  
  
  


The door slams when he strikes it with his back, body landing with a violent thud that ejects the air from his lungs, allowing it the opportunity to escape before it's stolen for good. Difficult to focus on his anger when the lack of breath is painful. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to contain the shiver that washes over him when Nacht pins him with his body; one fist twisted around his long, dark hair.

Through the equally dark lashes, Graves glares into the face before him.

Right there, wild with interest, no problem meeting him eye-to-eye. No unnatural focus on either blue or orange. Both hold his attention, although his attention is liable to wander.

And it does.

Nacht closes his mouth over Graves' as if to devour him; steal what he can of his breath when he doesn't have any to spare, tongue nudging at the barrier of lips. It's the lack of force in parting them that compels Graves to do it for him, complicit in desire.

The kiss is gentle—the opposite of everything that's happened this afternoon. Is this mercy?

Who cares if it is? 

His breath sneaks back into his lungs and brings his irritation with it. He claws the shirt at Nacht's back, hiking it up while digging in his nails as if trying to scrape it off—but it isn't going anywhere, not while Nacht is ignoring him to do what he wants. The most his scratching earns is an interruption: a hiss seethed between clenched teeth.

Fibers snap and stretch beneath Graves' fingers as he abuses the fabric, at which point Nacht finally takes the hint.

Off it goes, to the floor, on a table, on a bookshelf, or some place it shouldn't be—if Nacht recognises classifications like _places where Nacht's things shouldn't be_ (he doesn't)—anywhere. He's not concerned with its destination once it comes off: he's preoccupied with reducing Graves to the same state, biting a map no one else can follow into his body, lest they find him after they reach the end.

Graves doesn't mind. The sounds that spill from Nacht during these acts don't go to waste: he collects them; things to jog his memory when—it's always when—he wants to convince himself there are good things about Nacht. They're especially nice when steaming against his neck; sometimes purring his name.

Whatever blood is drawn during the process is fair: Nacht always bleeds the most.

  
  
  


He gets the impression Lance must have a seventh sense—one that involves knowing the precise moment Graves decides to reconcile with Nacht and deciding to vacate the premises so he doesn't have to deal with the unmitigated train-fuck disaster that's sure to follow that bad idea every time it's made.

Not that he's complaining. It's a bit embarrassing being caught like this. His hair's a mess, disorderly like the conduct that brought him here.

Them. Nacht's still asleep—a pleasant surprise. The sheets will need to be changed: dubious fluids aside, Graves can see his back is a mess. Rust-red flecks and dots have dried in places. Who knows if there's worse beneath him?

Graves reaches across the divide that separates them, pressing his fingertips against his back to trace the scrapes, as if leaving them in his skin—rather, leaving them in his skin _now_. There's no contesting the fact they were left by him; the blood is still beneath his fingernails. Away from the swollen, angry-red skin and scrapes, he notices something he's never seen before: other marks, faint and faded—physical memories of other scratches.

Did he leave these? Are they going to scar? Will they fade completely? For all the bites and bruises, Nacht hasn't left a permanent mark. The thought inflates him with a sense of elation he's not sure he should feel, but why rein it in? It isn't as if Nacht deserves it.

Doesn't deserve this either: the soft touch of lips against the back of his neck, even if he can't feel it while nestled in a nap. It's a shame a sleeper wouldn't be able to feel the slow, gentle curve of Graves's palm as it comes to rest upon his bicep. Interesting, he thinks, how seeing these marks can make him feel this way—affectionate. Infatuated. At the same time, it seems a shame: Nacht has lovely skin. He likes how it contrasts against his own. He's never been optimistic enough to believe in such things as soul mates or those who complete you, but if ever there was a person who was the opposite of his everything, this is him. Napping in his too-small-for-two bed; bleeding on his sheets. ...but he digresses. A stupid, sleepy tangent.

He moves his ha— _slap_ -and-trap. Graves jerks as if the impact rattled his entire body; staring at the hand covering his. "You're awake?"

"Mmn? Nah."

Fair answer. It was a stupid question. "I wasn't aware you knew how to stay still."

"If the incentive's right..."

Nacht doesn't let go. Then this position right here, right now, has managed to fall under the elusive category known as The Right Incentive.

A bit longer won't hurt.

  
  
  


It must have been around the one-year mark on the calendar tracking his life post-Nacht, Graves thinks. That was when he started showing his back. A handful of soon-sour relationships and pickled exchanges he'd had between atrocious break-ups taught him that more lovers do such things to express discontent and dissent. _I'm angry with you, but I won't say it, so I'm turning away. Ask me what's wrong._

Nacht was different. Should he ever wake up and find himself naked on stage, exposing himself to a crowd of millions of prying eyes, he wouldn't even blink. His sense of shame failed to exist—or if it did, it existed in a backwards way where it produced an increased desire for the exact thing that should have shamed him. Make it worse. Double-down. Embrace it. Can't run from what you are so you might as well enjoy it.

But back then, before things changed, he didn't like people behind him.

_Hm, paranoid?_

He'd asked that during the first few months they'd known each other. At first, Nacht didn't respond—didn't understand the question was asked of him. When more words failed to follow, he understood, replying: _what?_

_You avoid letting people fall behind or follow you._

_That?_ He'd said it in his self-assured, self-possessed manner; as if his true declaration was: I knew about that long before I was born. What of it? _It ain't paranoid._

_Then why?_

_Don't like it. Never have. Can't say I've given it much thought._

Graves couldn't say he knew him well then—or even at all. The brick-and-mortar foundation he'd laid in an attempt to forge a path to understanding Nacht had done nothing but create a long, winding road addled with brick-shaped holes, as if instead he'd created a puzzle and had pieces that should fit together perfectly, but when he tried to insert them they wouldn't go. It was confusing and frustrating that this perfectly-cut block didn't go where it seemed like it should have gone. Where did it go if not there? Will he ever complete it? (No.) Is the road even stable? (No.) Should he find another one? (Ignore intuition. Repeat previous.)

But the answer hadn't come as a surprise to him. Everything he did understand about Nacht pointed to one significant shortcoming: he thought self-reflection was overrated. Why spend time thinking when you could spend it doing? All that thinking couldn't be good for you.

  
  
  


The skull is skull-sized, as most adult skulls are, but it's crafted much more carefully than the hard-hat-helmet of human bone: it's woven from poetry and sharp angles; filled with gloomy, dreadful words. Graves stares at the twists of the stanzas, the rhymes, the letters crossing each distinct tooth. 

"Why you got your lips all pooched out."

Nacht sounds impatient. It snaps Graves free from the snare, but the damage has been done: the other half of the wire's snagged him; makes the heart pound painfully inside his chest. His stare resumes with a new target, more surprised and wide-eyed than he would have liked it to be. Might have tried to keep it off his face if only he knew it was there.

He knows something's wrong with his face based on Nacht's expression, which flickers from irritated to confused like a channel change. The corner of his mouth lifts in a skeptical sneer, as if saying _what's wrong with you?_

"Did you...I mean..."

"Hell no, I don't write that slag." Something clicks in Nacht's eyes—like he's been flashed a stage cue he forgot, prompting him to admit: "Don't even read it. Can't get the pictures." By which Graves understands he can't construct mental images from poetry. Poems invoke no feelings; no emotions. He has no use for poetry. The words mean as much to him as the ground he occasionally—disgustingly—spits on.

It makes this that much worse. These words are specific. Targeted. On point. The kind of words that indicate the creator of the skull put some thought toward getting it right. Further than that: the benign explanation means he's not out to provoke a reaction, which is suspicious in itself. Graves looks back at the skull.

He moves its jaw. "It opens!" Minuscule words dot the tongue like taste buds.

Nacht still doesn't look sure, but he doesn't do anything about it. "Clack it if ya want. It ain't gonna break."

He does, in fact, clack it. 

This is a foolish pleasure. His dignity is at stake, but even so, he can't resist speaking in time with the chatter of paper teeth. " _The little birds are full of joy; lambs bleating all the day; the colt runs after the old mare and children play. And still there comes this dark, dark hour—which is not borne of Care; into my heart it creeps before I am aware._ "

Now Nacht looks as close to ill as a handsome young man in peak physical condition and excellent health can look—which isn't very, but he gives it a solid try before he bails and switches tactics. In the clear, smooth tone of grandstanding performances and vocal projection: "And I, overtaken by gratitude, grasp for his belt buckle while sinking t—"

"I will not."

  
  
  


Nacht had a penchant for taking the pretentious and intolerable and finding a way to make it even more insufferable.

One year a student performed _Fell Out of a Plane and Landed On the Dean's Car_ , which was a hit with the student paper. In the article the student boasted that his piece was intended to demonstrate the increasingly-likely scenario in which a young man might find himself falling out of a plane at such an angle, in such a precise way, that someone could plausibly discover his corpse lying on top of the Dean's car—unharmed, of course—which so happened to be housed in an indoor car park. 

Nacht hated it. He complained to the exclusion of his other interests and nothing could deter him. Graves finds this memory particularly valuable in that it involves the look on Lance's face the moment Nacht dropped "ostentatious bullshit" in one of his high-handed, overbearing critiques to which no one had paid attention until that point. Ah, yes. Even now that never fails to summon a smile.

It generated uncertain silence among everyone (day: game night—in those regretful days before Graves figured he should spare his roommate and find a way to grant himself temporary reprieve from Nacht) who wasn't Nacht, who had no shortage of words for how inane, pointless, useless it was. How wasn't he expelled? Why'd they let him get away with it? That didn't even look like real blood. (By now Graves knew he meant: _why are they stroking his ego? They should be fondling mine!_ )

Graves cleared his throat, which signaled Nacht to take his tantrum inward before he was kicked out again. Really, he appreciated Nacht playing like a proper attendee—as he only did when he was too preoccupied with something to focus on ruining it for everyone else—but the troupe was getting closer to the beast and they needed to be mindful of that instead. 

Two days later, Nacht cured his ailment by performing _I Was Brutally Murdered Right Outside That Guy's Dorm Room_ , for which he was fined due to the stains his piece left on the carpet, the damage sustained in the hallway, and damage to the surrounding area. A small sacrifice for the sake of art.

When a student reporter asked him to comment, he provided: "Somethin'-somethin', ego death."

No one asked about the blood.

  
  
  


"I meant to ask, do you actually practice here?"

"Once inna while. Why?"

"Don't the other tenants complain?"

"Not no more."

"Did you have a chance to read the book I gave you?"

"Which one?"

". There's a section on insulation."

"That bit 'bout blockin' sound? Didn't see a point. If they know what they're doin' you ain't gonna know what they are 'til they hit ya."

"I agree it's fairly optimistic, but I found the principle solid."

"You try it?"

"More of a modification. I reversed the structure. Essentially, instead of insulating myself from sound, I'm able to contain it around me."

"Sure it works? Real easy ta ignore ya."

"I'm sure. Lance can't focus if I practice there, so I tried it in the sh—shut up!"

"Ha! Lanny don't know what's good."

"...yes, well, anyway. I'll show you, if you'd like."

"Do that later."

"Why la-"

  
  
  


They'd split for the fourth time by the third year.

No, "split" was wrong. Had it ended another way—one of them storming away, slamming a door, dragging the fight outside, or otherwise leaving at some point before the following day's morning classes—it might have been correct, and it would have been better if it had.

The dreadful part was not knowing what would happen the next time they saw each other.

Graves inhales, holds the breath, exhales, and soothes his temples like one might do to a headache. He's just gotten home and he's already thinking of leaving. Dracula's lying curled up on a chair.

Watching her turns frustration to fondness. No irritation touches his voice when he speaks to her, although the words he picks signify a deeper problem: "I've never known what you see in him."

Her ear flicks toward the sound of his voice and she whirs a _mrrrrr._

Pause. "That's different."

She opens an eye—brilliant, beautiful blue. It mirrors his eye in colour, but if he had to pick, he would say she wears it much better. She's also much better at staring. She thumps her tail, watching him.

Slightly longer pause. "...or not so different, I suppose, from your perspective..."

That must be better. She uncurls herself and stands, arching her back in a stretch before she hops down to greet him by the door, properly this time.

  
  
  


"I told you to stop."

"Ain't what you said."

"That is what I said."

"You said stop ruinin' 'em."

"That's exactly what you're doing!"

Holding his page with his thumb, Nacht flips to the cover and appraises its worth somewhere around the value of a rusty penny. " _Recrudescence Apropos Celebrated Diasporic Doggerel_? Agree ta disagree." Then he's back at it, doing something Graves can't tell. He isn't even looking at him.

"All right, the title is—" ("Bloated?") "—a bit—" ("Horseshit?") Sigh. 

"Bet they sat 'round a li'l coffee table in a li'l shop, all round-robin, tryin' t'figure out how they were gonna off 'of.' "

"At least stop while I'm talking."

_That_ catches his interest. Nacht glances over the top of the book he's currently desecrating. Something unsettling about being on the other side of that stare when he's devoting his full attention. Like looking into far-too-clever gunmetal gray right before the pull of a trigger. "Want me to pay attention to you?"

It's disarming and infuriating. "I want you to stop ruining my books while I'm talking to you about how I've told you—repeatedly, mind you—to stop ruining my books."

"Ahh, can't believe you think that! I'm improving it."

Out of all the problems he expected to face in college, wondering about his blood pressure wasn't one of them. Graves sets his jaw, steeling himself before declaring: "So you say. You'll replace it, too."

Nacht lowers his eyes, mouth curled into a smirk. No answer.

It takes a while before Graves can bring himself to assess the damage. Some ink is smudged, words occasionally displaced or cut out altogether—which is interesting, because he'd like to think he would have noticed Nacht casually slicing words with magic, but soon he doesn't notice that thought at all. There are other things to notice: the words are cut out on the page in such a fashion the page beneath them merges into a new poem.

_It came upon them swiftly;_  
It crushed them all to blood,  
But some had | _fairy fruits and flowers_ |

On another page:

_Pain is a flower like | strange perfume|_  
_Like_ | _us quickly_ |  
_Like_ | _in a naked_ |  
| _Room._ | _This one_  


On another:

_Darkness surrounds the question_  
I ask my drowsy owl:  
| _The turtle lives twixt plated d▓cks_ | _?_

He scribbled over the "e". Another:

_I like_ | _tongues_ | _;_ | _the charm of arms._ |  
_I love a prophet_ | _rocked at the shock of his cock_ |

He stares for a long, hard moment—then flips the page to inspect the one b—ah, false alarm. That was an insert. Onward:

|| _he kissed me close, and then did something else._  
_My marrow beat as wildly as my pulse._  


Graves snaps the book shut and drops it.

  
  
  


Think of when it started to go wrong. Reinforcement. Here's a memory. Is this the one? Can't remember at the moment.

What he does remember is the thick, staggered sound of breath above him; the weak mewl of his own voice once his eyes flew open, choking on _Nacht_ \- as the hand closed around his neck. The panic, the filmy fear of betrayal wetting his stare, and how Nacht must have read the sentiment: _he's going to kill me, I'm going to die,_ and _why?_

He remembers the soft, gentle way he shushed him— _shh, shh, shh_ —while his grip tightened and his body ground to a halt; buried conspicuously inside of him but much too fascinated not to pause and watch. How strange it felt to realise he'd seized his neck but wasn't crushing his throat; how he squeezed the sides with his thumb and middle finger, watching Graves's eyelashes twitch and lower; limbs quickly drained of their strength. How it didn't hurt when alertness faded to dizziness and something he hadn't expected: a blinding, all-consuming spike of pleasure swallowing his body once Nacht began to move again.

Surely he made more noise than he can recall, unaware of any sound produced when tunnel vision closed in like a circle of starving wolves—or when it returned to him like being hit by a truck; body becoming little more than a smear of adrenaline. He must have gasped for the air once he was allowed to have it, till Nacht cut him off again—over and over, over and over, over and over; in tandem with the rhythm of their bodies.

He remembers the way his control slipped; how Nacht's bore down on him and into him; pinning him, hand still firm around his throat; crushing their lips together in a one-sided kiss, as if feeding on his moans; heedless of the writhing and new heat between them till he himself was finished.

It felt like revival after death. He can't remember opening his eyes, but sound and sensation remain: the deep, heavy breathing; each body stubbornly maintaining its own beat, refusing to sync. 

He remembers liking that. He wanted to be angry—still wants to be angry. That was one hell of a boundary to breach—but was it a boundary? It's no longer clear. It seems to him, in retrospect, as more of a blind spot; something he'd never have thought he'd consider enjoyable.

"Enjoyable" is a strong word. On second thought, he didn't not enjoy it. That may have been the first time but it certainly wasn't the last. Before or after things changed?

He's misled himself: that memory was from before, although that particular deviancy remained present in their relationship long after—but in small comforts, so did the warmth and overwhelming fondness with which Nacht looked upon him whenever he had his hand around his neck. Would have been more merciful to kill him instead of leaving this cruel twisting wound inside his chest.

That memory was a mistake, for all the wrong reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

"You intend to practice tonight, don't you?"

The question's pitched: Nacht catches it in his right ear. He pauses to tilt a look over his shoulder and finds a black blotch on an otherwise sunny, cheerful afternoon. "Plan on it."

"Your place?"

Gloom emanates like a bad cloud. Got some kind of thought thundering around in there, but if he won't say anything then Nacht isn't interested in hearing it. "Nah. Gonna break a new kit in."

Cordial as a knife: "I'll join you."

No complaints here, but somebody might be complaining there. "Won't get much singin' done with no setup an' only drums."

Words twist like steel in flesh. "Is that a no?"

Nacht throws his eyes to the sky, mouth parting while he inhales an audible breath to expel a louder sigh. Better cut out. His voice rumbles like earth when he turns back to the street, tossing his reply with a dismissive wave, as if swatting the question away. "It ain't."

Behind him: "Well, I'll see you soon."

Graves cops a hell of an attitude for a guy who keeps to himself.

Gonna get him in trouble someday.

  
  
  


A naked light bulb hangs from the ceiling.

The room boasts a concrete floor; metal walls tagged to high hell with designs and scripts (Nacht will neither confirm nor deny when it comes to answering " _Did you do this?_ "); and makes no secret it would be miserable to inhabit during any seasons aside from spring and fall—no windows, no heat, no cooling, no fresh air.

It does what he needs it to do: contain a drum kit (dismantled as neatly as can be in a corner); a broken record player with a flat circle of wood lodged on it instead of a disk; and a brown-and-yellow-patterned couch that looks like it saw better days before it changed multiple hands, lived through who-knows-who-cares-how-many estate sales, and somehow found itself here, shoved up against a wall.

Good room. Nacht likes it.

_It's a storage unit_ , Graves had said the first time he saw it. 

Nacht said he was imposing limits on something-or-other-he-can't-remember-the-phrase-exactly by using labels. Graves had gone silent, but the fact he hadn't been contemplating this timeless wisdom made itself evident when he countered: _It isn't a label. It's actually a storage unit._

_Yeah, but it'll work,_ said Nacht.

Whether it works for anyone else remains to be seen, but it does well enough for Nacht—who sits cross-legged in the middle of floor, surrounded by a mess of drums. He tunes them one at a time, spinning them in circles on the record player while he tightens tensions and taps, tightens tensions and taps, tightens-taps, tightens-taps, tightens-taps, taps, taps, tightens-taps, then flips it upside down to do it again till it's time for the next. Graves calls this attention to detail _single-minded focus_. Always found that a cute way to say _actually getting shit done_.

For his part, Graves stretches across half of the couch cushion (it's only got one; covers the whole length), reading a book whose cover title seems to lick the air like flames when seen in peripheral view. Might have to borrow that later.

He holds the tuning key with his mouth when he swaps drum-for-untuned-drum, lifting his eyes to—watch Graves avert his, black brows angling nearer together with the suggestion of a frown Nacht can't see through the shield of the book, concentrating so hard on that page as if he'd never moved them at all. 

Might've been coincidence—natural to move your eyes a bit—but by the third glance that theory stops holding water: it's shot full of holes, leaking all over the damn place, and it's gonna drown. Gonna hold it down till all the reasons come to the surface— _pop, pop, pop!_ —like bubbles.

The key falls from his mouth when he opens it, landing in his palm—which he sets (correction: slams) on the concrete with a _clang_. 

"You got a problem?"

Graves doesn't budge. "Weren't you going to practice?"

"Don't be dodgin' me. Do I gotta wring it outta you? I'm gonna tell ya: I ain't got a problem with that, so hurry up or put up."

Black-clad shoulders seem to shrink and the book rises higher, blocking what Nacht can see of his face. Only after that does he answer: "My problem is you. You're not taking this seriously."

Nacht squints, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer as if he's lived in world of night his entire life and this is his first glimpse of the sun; trying to work out how that thing got so bright and figure out where it came from and when it's gonna go away. He looks to the scattered pieces of drum equipment around him, then back to the book, right about where Graves's face should be. "Pardon?"

Did he hear that right? Is he going deaf?

"I heard about your piece. The one with the paper gun."

"Ain't surprised." What's surprising here is they're talking about it. "Real popular."

"No doubt. Surely plenty of people would love to see you blow your head off."

Such edge! That pointed, caustic remark fails to achieve its intended effect: a grin slices across his face. He's got the idea that some part of him's been snagged—caught on this barbed razorwire-feeling he doesn't dislike. Bleeds the ill humour from him. "Aw, you worried?" Nacht pushes himself to a stand, looming above a smattering of drum parts like a particularly naughty puppy with impervious teeth. "I wouldn't do that without givin' you a front row seat."

Now that he can see Graves, he can tell he's staring at some southward spot in his book. Doesn't look like the focal point's moving any. "I'd thank you not to ruin my clothes with your final act of existence."

"Think of it like me givin' you a gift. Part'a me ta remember me by." Nacht approaches one step after another. Doesn't take long before he reaches the edge of the couch. "Or a lotta li'l ones."

Something flickers in Graves's expression that he doesn't recognise—similar to light reflecting off a ring; blinding for one moment and gone the next—but he doesn't have much time to think about it. "I don't want your 'parts.' "

Nacht barks a loud, short burst of laughter. 

Can't be mad when he puts it like that. "Your loss." Pause, then sly: "How long you gonna read that page? Been at it for a bit."

Could've got the same reaction by shaking him. Graves peers at him. Must be closer than he expected based on the wiggle-then-tightening of his mouth.

The book clops shut. Sounds like a horse hoof. "I believe we were talking about my problem." Pause, then hasty: "With you." He sets it in his lap, then folds his arms over it like it's a flotation device.

Seems an awful lot like wishful thinking from this perspective. "Might'a been, but you gotta gimme more than what you did."

"Why do you do this? That. What _you_ did."

Nacht's expression finds the closest thing it can to a flat-neutral. "'Cos it's art?"

"You're going to be expelled."

Better to listen instead of engage. "You think?"

"I do think, unlike you. You think you can talk your way out of everything."

One engagement: "I can." Back to listening.

Graves goes silent while he inhales a deep breath. "I can't—it would be _inconvenient_ to replace—"

He made a mistake.

Understanding floods Nacht like the light this place doesn't give, shedding new understanding on all these invisible contents lying around that he somehow missed before that switch got flipped. Sentences stop registering. Catches pieces, but they aren't important. ("—leave because you—") It's not about taking it seriously. ("—can't control your—") It's not about the band. ("—don't understand why—") He's gone and made up a fantasy about something that's never gonna happen. Making a big deal outta nothing. For what?

No point thinking about that part. He holds strong through the wave of words to which he doesn't care to listen, watching Graves with a calm, still sturdiness.

Discomfort lashes across his face as his sentences fade to silence, turning his head away from Nacht's casual appraisal. Doesn't look like he knows what he's on about either.

That's fine. He's with somebody who can roll with it.

Movement like detonation: Nacht rams his knee beside Graves and sinks into the cushion, one palm braced against the backrest while the other darts with targeted purpose: his index and middle fingers take the breach of personal space a step further by pressing into his neck, searching for his carotid. Sound squeaks from Graves's throat and his body jolts with surprise. He slaps one hand against Nacht's wrist while he leans deeper into the arm of the couch; fire-and-ice stare's perfectly wide but his mouth's shut.

Might get further if he tried to escape by trapping himself between two walls. 

Strange—the way this poorly lit place makes his pale skin stand out, drawing attention to how each finger tightly squeezes him, but doesn't try to remove his hand. The beat's wild beneath his fingers, flapping like a hummingbird. Spooked him though. Need to wait that out. See if something else happens.

It does: can see the proof of his breath changing with the movement of his chest, picking up like it's got a mind to race his heart. Won't get anywhere if it tries. That pulse doesn't show any sign of stopping. The shock's gone out of his face, replaced by something more subdued. In time, Graves's grip loosens; smoothing down—up, if you're getting technical—his arm. Almost like raising a white flag.

Something in this muted submission widens Nacht's eyes before it lowers his lids; leaving him unaware of the low, breathy whisper of his laugh till he hears it. Graves doesn't make a sound; directs his attention toward the middle of the room, but he looks lost. That stare isn't seeing anything. Must see even less when his lashes darken his gaze.

His fingers splay against Graves's jaw, stroking with careful consideration before he tilts it; leaning in to annihilate the lingering distance between them.

...

...

...

...

...

The union's gentle. More than he could have expected from himself.

Can't recall treating anybody like this; kisses broken into small and soft segments, dropped at the corner of his lips, his cheek, his chin, anywhere they can reach. Blame it on the feeling in his chest, sinking its claws in and pulling him, trying to drag him under; take him to that chasm Graves carved for himself and sink them both there.

It's a different sort of attraction from the one he thought he had.

He's not sure he likes it.


	3. Chapter 3

From the second you know you exist the world feeds you contradictions; raises you on fairy tales and half-assed oral traditions whose origins nobody remembers and expects you to know what you're doing with yourself. _Appearances are deceiving._ Not supposed to judge books by their covers so why weasel deception in there? _You are known by the company you keep._ Then what's wrong with guilt-by-association? _A man who talks for both sides is not to be trusted by either_ and _there are two sides to every story._ Not even gonna touch those. _Nature exceeds nurture._ Hell, why raise kids? Let 'em roam. They'll come home to roost like chickens unless they're abducted or eaten by wolves.

If life goes according to all that shit they've swallowed, maybe they'll get lucky, fall for a stranger. Marry somebody they barely know. That's not asking for problems.

But Sleeping Beauty ain't got her ears punched full of holes and she always wears clothes.

Nacht lies on his back, one arm folded behind his head and the other across his bare stomach, covered by the last scraps of blanket not brutally monopolised by the bundle centered on the couch—big enough to have a center on account of its prior experience as a bed. (Not to say it's a pull-out; little pulling out happens here. It's been repurposed. Nacht's never been fond of being told what to do. Didn't need a kitchen-living-dining room, so now he's got a room he can sleep in with a stove, fridge, and sink in it. Drums get their own room.)

Feels like Graves does it on purpose; unconsciously enacting passive-aggressive revenge for some slight that occurred before he fell asleep. Evidence supports it: this never happens at his apartment—but the idea's born from enough time spent observing him. Nacht's never cared to take them back.

Doesn't look like he's content winning though: committed to a gloomy, tragic expression even in sleep.

Time passes. Light cuts a shaft across the blankets, spilling through the crooked blinds.

Should get up.

He's careful not to move quickly when he slips off the couch, squeezing his eyes shut as he ruffles a hand through his hair; opening them again to navigate the terrain—stepping over the occasional article of clothing (mixed types—some are dark and solid; others suggest they're much too expensive despite their strategic rips, gashes, and discolourations), dubious bottles of _something_ , and one fallen floor lamp.

First things first.

He rights the blinds and kills the light.

  
  
  


Decorations are sparse but it doesn't lack character. Even the holes he's put in the walls look pleasant, like they'll lead to someplace nice even though there's no glory waiting on the other side. An empty dartboard covers the biggest one. It's got a crack reaching from behind it, splitting at the end like a claw. Nacht likes it. Looks like it's waving—a friendly hand welcoming him home. On the days when he doesn't have company, depending on his mood, he might wave back.

Today he hardly gets through the door before he hears the voice: "I thought I'd been kidnapped."

Nacht's mouth tics at one corner, stretching into a smirk. "Gotta watch that booze." Door-shut. "Drink too much and-" the deadbolt clicks a heavy _clack_ when he turns it, punctuating one sentence to imply another: the kind that starts when you get locked up and can't get out.

His captive doesn't appear impressed. He sits near the edge of the couch, like he thought about leaving it but didn't quite make it there, leaning into the backrest and cushions (pillows) behind him; naked from the waist up—maybe down, depending on how long he's been awake. "I can hold my liquor. I mean-"

Visual cue: a pale arm sweeps a gesture across the room and locks on target. Nacht follows the arm to a poster on the wall: a handsome man of an indistinct-but-probably-twenties-or-thirties appearance, a golden tan, eight-pack, and possibly a package—not that you can tell with all the darts in the way.

Looks painful, but he's wearing them like they ain't no thing. Inspirational!

He looks at Graves. "I'm not followin'."

Graves looks as put upon as someone can look when they're a guest in someone else's home. Another gesture. The next poster: a man of similar structure to the last, only his mouth is tugged into a pout. It's hard to tell his expression because he's been blindfolded—by darts.

Back to Graves again. "Cain't be lookin' at faces like that first thing inna morning. It's like drinkin' too early."

Any other concerns Graves might have are undisclosed: he stops raising them when Nacht starts moving, eyes aimed at the two fabric bags he carries in one hand. But he does have a suggestion: "You could take it down."

"Wouldn't do that. Adds a great flavour."

He takes a detour on his way to the destination, swinging closer to the couch; kissing his fingertips before he reaches out to pat Graves's cheek in passing. Graves closes his amber eye, frowning like he's been kissed by some nanna or auntie and doesn't particularly care for it.

The bags don't rustle when he sets them on the counter to sort through them. Lots of perks to fabric bags. Environmentally conscious, advertises to people that you care about the environment even if you don't care about the environment, _and_ quiet. Less trash. "Gonna do eggs. You like spinach?"

He tips a look toward the couch when he fails to get an answer. Graves has his body half-twisted toward him, staring like he's never seen him before. Another try: "C'mon. You know eggs. Bet you even know spinach. Had me reading about livestock and crops all night."

"Not _all_." Hesitation, then softly: "I like it."

Nacht sees him disappear from the corner of his eyes while he washes his hands. Maybe decided to lie down again.

This time he'll wake him if he falls asleep.

  
  
  


Nacht stares at the symbols like they're something to overcome.

They are: the longer he stares at the pages in this book, the more these pieces make sense. It takes a particular type of focus—recalling old knowledge learned and relying on the natural aptitude inundating his blood.

A hand settles on his shoulder. Doesn't break his focus longer than the second it takes him to glance at the culprit, who looks sly and about to commit a crime.

...ha.

Redaction: it breaks his focus, but he's determined to get it back. Skin feels like it's tingling beneath the touch, like he's the antidote to whatever poisons afflict Nacht.

That ain't how it goes though. "Need somethin'?"

"Not particularly." The palm squeezes down his arm, pressing into both fabric and the ridges of his muscles; replaced soon by weight that brushes against his side. Nacht slides his eyes over. Graves smiles in the way of large, fat cats that got away with not only eating a canary, but a whole cage of them. "But I'd like to follow along."

"Tch." Back to the page. "You wanna gloat?"

"That depends on how long you take. You're having trouble aren't you?"

"Li'l bit. Keep reading the same thing over an' over 'cos it's..."

"It's...?" Graves leans harder. Nacht spares another glance. He's lying about that whole following along thing. Got his eyes closed; nothing but smug satisfaction to be found.

Back to the page. Again. "There's this section that reads _Unavoidable Poultry_."

"Yes, it does."

"Right, so I keep lookin' at it 'cos I keep thinkin' I'm wrong and then I'm readin' about cattle accidents, so then I start thinkin'—what the hell am I looking at, exactly?"

"Mmm, the mysteries of new books." Fond, wistful purring.

"You ain't helpin."

Graves cracks an eye open, watching him. "Are you saying you need my help?"

Nacht doesn't take the bait. "Sayin' it's unfair expectin' me to care 'bout bad birds and bloody milk when I've got doin' other stuff on my mind."

Vivid blue glitters. "Like me, I suppose? But you won't."

Ahh, that confidence—gets him right where it shouldn't: inside. Dense in his abdomen; prickles at the spine, tightening with interest. "That right?"

"You're too stubborn. You want to know why I told you to read this. Once you figure it out, then maybe."

Nacht exhales a _pff_.

He's not wrong.

Something feels strangled inside his chest.

  
  
  


"What d'you think it was?"

"I'm not sure."

"Give you a hint: it's got sugar."

"I could tell."

"So...?"

"It certainly wasn't you. Nothing sweet comes from your mouth."

"Course not. Natural flavour would be worse."

"You've thought about it?"

"Sure have. Burnt sheet inna stove somebody forgot about, so the grease catches fire an' the whole place floods with smoke."

"I only did that once!"

"Yeah, 'cos I ain't lettin' you do it again."


	4. Chapter 4

Rust.

Walkways span overhead—weak, ruddy, and reaching for once-sterling pillars and beams, desperate for reinforcement.

Nacht stands among dust and detritus like a man swallowed by the skeleton of a great metal fish rather than standing in the center of a decaying room. Pockets of light puncture the ceiling and shed sun blobs on the ground; his hands hidden within pockets of another kind (brown jacket; leather? Faux, one hopes), chin tipped and eyes cloudy as if searching for focus in spots of sky.

The air is stale and still. Uneasy on the lungs. Unsettling _and_ unsettled—surely they shouldn't be breathing these particles? He has no interest in stressing his clothes till they tear like Nacht does, but today he's willing to risk it: Graves stretches the collar of his shirt to cover the lower half of his face like a mask, holding it to keep it in place.

Note for the future: reconsider agreeing to _Wanna see somethin'?_ even after confirming it has nothing to do with any of Nacht's zippers.

"Ain't that somethin'."

He lifts his eyes to see what Nacht sees. Pipes cross into an X, a small bar joining the bottom half in the shape of an A. "Looks like a body," he adds, no doubt accounting for the fact his present victim might have come to a different conclusion.

Which he has. "I see pipes. Tetanus, possibly."

Nacht closes his eyes and grins with native derision, shaking his head. "Ain't how ya get it." One eye opens. "Fine-bred thing like you don't gotta worry anyway." 

Was that a barb? "I'm not worrying. I wouldn't go near you if I hadn't had my shots."

"Ha!" Both eyes open now. "C'mere then." 

Against better judgment, he listens; picking through debris with the sure-footed steps of a cat. Nacht would consider this low-grade magic sense "cheating". Graves considers it common sense: this floor boasts the brand "ground level", but that doesn't eliminate the threat of a spontaneous sojourn to the basement.

When he's within a few steps, Nacht raises a hand—brown gloves, likely also leather (imitation: less likely)—to indicate his discovery and lifts his gaze to join it. "Look."

He does. "Rusted pipes?"

"More than that. See the body? There's legs—bar's stretchin' 'em. Arms are tied ta..." He waves in a grand, meaningless gesture. "...whatever's goin' on there." Cords coiled like snakes, their original purpose lost to time. "Light's the head. Ain't so pretty all smashed up though."

For a moment, silence.

Corpses display more energy than Graves's voice. "I _do_ hope this isn't what you wanted to show me."

Laughter cracks like thunder, reckless with mirth till absorbed by the ruins rather than returning as an echo. Fragments of ceiling grind beneath Nacht's boots when he turns and crunches toward a dark doorway that seems to have long misplaced its door. "C'mon now! I wouldn't do ya like that."

Now that he _does_ see the resemblance... "I wonder." He releases his shirt, allowing it to uncover the faint, unimpressed line of his lips.

The crunching stops. "Why?" Nacht pauses, half-turning to glance back at him. Graves is fairly certain he doesn't appreciate the smirk. "Ain't like I gotta pry 'em open."

Rescind 'fairly', swap with another adverb: Graves is absolutely certain he doesn't appreciate the smirk. Someone wearing a black bandanna around his neck like a fresh-from-the-cleaners—rather, groomers—dog shouldn't have the audacity to look so smug.

Graves pursues him, tone flooded with royal disdain. "We'll see."

  
  
  


The corridor is something akin to a game of Dracula's Rondo gone dreadfully wrong, like the participants forced him down a path he'd neither intended nor was particularly fond of embellishing—not something unexpected when playing with Nacht, but undesirable all the same. It's dim but not total dark. A small mercy: he's spared from seeing the grime he must be inhaling, but he can feel it twitch in his throat; easy to ignore till it becomes a cough. He lifts his hand to—brace against Nacht's back, stopping short of slamming into him.

Some warning would have been nice. "What are-"

"Hol' on." The sound of fabric sliding from skin. Nacht turns to him again, this time presenting a limp strip of darkness. "Here."

Ah.

Bandanna. Hesitation, then acceptance. He reaches to the back of his head—to feel the hand that's already darted there, brushing against his nape, gathering his hair to hold it up. Out of the way. This flitting touch sends his heart fluttering, leaving him incapable of rendering a _thank you_ rather than a: "You could have tied it instead."

Unabashed, airy agreement: "Coulda."

It isn't worth debating. Between inhaling could-be-traces-of-asbestos and Nacht—it's a tough call, but Nacht is less likely to kill him in the long run. He ties the bandanna like a large, ineffective flu mask. Once he's finished, he feels his hair fall back in place.

But now it's back to walking again. "Gets brighter up here."

The heads-up isn't necessary: the outline of the body in front of him becomes distinct, standing out against their decrepit surroundings. One turn brings them to an open room of uncertain purpose, lighter than the first on account of its shutterless, shattered windows. Rust lingers in shadows and holes, sticking to its natural places on exposed steel-and-concrete foundation, just out of sight. Where the brick is still solid, the walls flaunt white and black paint, meaning Nacht must—no, that's not him, is it? Too bland. "You've neglected to add a personal touch."

A _heh_. "Ain't gonna add nothin'."

"Too out of the way? I suppose few would see it."

"Nah. Like how it is."

How rare for someone who often has suggestions for how _everything_ could be better, if only everyone listened to his outlandish and foolhardy demands.

They enter an adjunct room containing a narrow staircase, ugly and corroded from exposure. Windowless though the claustrophobic space might be, he supposes it isn't enough to keep moisture out. He follows Nacht when he begins to climb, startled to a halt by the palm about to strike him in the chest.

Their eyes meet—gray to amber-and-blue. Nacht looks like he's thinking. "Wait a sec."

Which he does. Although he doesn't see the point, he sees less of one in starting an argument. The sooner he sees whatever he's come to see, the sooner they can leave. Boots clank up the stairs, occasionally stepping hard enough to be a stomp. It's spliced with what must be the sound of a handrail worried by strident shaking—fitting ambiance while he regards the location.

All that exists here exhibits various stages of decay, consumed by Natural Order as nature reclaims the handiwork that once-workers must have laboured to maintain. It leaves him with a pang of...some vaguely-distressed sentiment. Nervousness? Not so. This corrosion poses no threat to him. Melancholic? Perhaps closer. Doubtless this place was ever much to look at on the best of its days, but there's something heartbreaking about old buildings such as this one. No small amount of resources went toward its construction.

Would have been a mercy to destroy it. At least then parts of it could be salvaged to become something else, possibly more useful. All this wasted potential—

"All over!"

—well, no reason to continue that thought.

  
  
  


Second floor: similar to the first in that it doesn't contain much to look at aside from deterioration, rust, and the occasional smattering of graffiti. It does, however, contain quite a lot of naked pipework. It also contains Nacht, who he sees reaching for a long tract like a cat pawing at a toy. Once he's found his grip, he wrenches it from the wall—in intention only at first. The initial attempt does nothing. Upon the second, Graves examines the potential trajectory of the framework. By the third, he inches to place where he's certain he'll be spared from collateral damage. Magic is magic, but there's no wisdom in neglecting your basic safety. Fourth, fifth, and sixth attempts pass. Seven sees the frame lurch. It takes eight to make it squeal and plunge forward, snapping into halves down its center, collapsing first into each other and then changing the course of their respective falls.

No time to yelp a warning—not even _you idiot!_ —but he soon finds the impulse unnecessary: Nacht catches the piece toppling toward him (a heavy, solid _smack_ against his gloves) while the other careens to the floor, striking it with a much heavier blow.

Dust rises like an explosion and lingers as if it's found a new existence as dirty fog. Graves makes a visor out of one of his hands, trying to keep as much of it out of his eyes as he can. Closing them would do a better job till it settles again, but that would rob him of the opportunity to observe Nacht.

He gingerly lowers his section of pipe to the ground, displaying no outward regard for his position in a place where the cloud is thickest.

Does it not bother him? He's lucky the ground didn't collapse. "A hobby of yours?"

Nacht continues to work, if that's what you can call it. He crouches on a piece of pipe, attached to the arrangement by one joint. His fingers are stuck between the rusted metal and floor—shouldn't that hurt?—and he holds onto it, heaving his weight back as he pulls. "Kinda."

This part doesn't appear as if it will break from such an organic method. Does he need help? Weakening what's left of the steel shouldn't pose a—

It snaps with a brittle, sick sound that reminds him of a cringe. The break is messy and sharp, lending it the impression of a spear rather than a hollow pipe. Nacht straightens into a stand, bouncing the piece in his hand as if to test its weight before deciding how he feels. "Guess this'll do."

That isn't comforting. "Do what?"

"You'll see." That answer, less so. Nacht hums—too loudly to be considered 'to himself'—as he slams the flat end of the pipe into the floor.

Graves flinches, bracing for—nothing. Something fails to happen. Or, more correctly, something interesting fails to happen. The cheery hum persists while Nacht taps the ground with every couple of steps he takes across the room.

Irritation begins to warm his blood. He can feel heat in his face. "Nacht."

A particularly loud _hm?_

"I'm aware you're showing off—" 

"Ooo, astute!"

"—but I don't see _why_." 

After a moment, Graves furrows his brows. Was he mocking him?

In the manner of someone who has not only been caught red-handed but been caught drenched in blood and finds themselves pleased with the current state of affairs, Nacht pauses in both movement and song to turn to him—grinning like a bone knife, lifting both arms (and, consequently, the pipe) in an exaggerated shrug.

Graves stares.

No respectable answer materialises.

Nacht's attention drifts back to his task.

This is not what he was expecting. Graves can feel his heart pounding to the erratic rhythm of anger; his head dizzy with an all-too-conspicuous Something He Doesn't Quite Know. He can't begin to fathom how to approach it. All he can do his hold his ground and say: "I'll not help you if you fall through."

"Ain't gonna."

"I'll not warn you of weak spots either. You can't possibly hit them all."

"Hate ta disappoint ya, but..." Strategic, theatrical pause accompanied by two solid taps on the floor. "...I can."

And he does. He reaches the other side without incident, slipping through another doorway.

It occurs to him he could go. _Something's off._ Not encourage this blatantly terrible behaviour by doing what he wants. _It's wrong._ Why should he bother? _Do not. Run._

Graves takes a deep breath, free from dust—an allowance granted by the bandanna.

And by extension, Nacht.

He crosses the floor without pointless fanfare. No weakness resides beneath his feet.

  
  
  


This room is their last. There's nowhere else to go.

Vines twist through windows and seep from the ceiling, spreading wherever they can grow. Graves expects to see something other than the standard rust-graffiti-disrepair to which he's grown accustomed—to be enlightened as to why he's here, but nothing makes itself apparent. Only Nacht, who arches his back hard enough to pop it and makes himself busy by lifting a vine with the sharp end of his pipe. Silent but fidgety, like an impatient student who passed his test and is waiting for his slower, stupider friend to finish.

Enough of this. "What was it you wanted to show me?"

The vine slips from the pipe. "Didn't say I was gonna show ya nothin'."

Another deep breath. The vine slips back on the pipe. "Nacht."

"Mm?"

"None of these semantics. Why are we here?"

That must be a sufficient question. Nacht abandons the vine, turning his attention on Graves for what feels like the first time. _That isn't true._ ...perhaps not. Feelings aren't always logical. ( _Run._ )

Nacht cocks his head, raising his brows and parting his mouth as if surprised. "Thought you liked that shit!" The look in his eyes sharpens, like a thought that's clicked itself into place like a missing puzzle piece. "Lookin' pretty pissed o'er there. Gonna come atta guy with a pipe?"

Incredulity swells within him till it surges from his mouth in a scoff. "You wouldn't hit me if I did."

A tense, hackle-raising sensation washes over him like standing where lightning's about to strike. It's the spark in Nacht's stare does it—the one that brightens his face when he says: "Think so?"

Gravity exists harder. _Too late._ Makes him wonder about his assertion. _Can't run._ It's hard to look at him. _Don't look away._ But he forces his reply all the same: "You don't intend to harm me."

Brighter and brighter yet— _feels wrong_ —like Nacht was the one who had doubts and is genuinely pleased with that answer. "Can't say I know where ya got that idea from. Did bring you to an ol' abandoned dump."

Metal-taste tinges his tongue. _Don't run._ That his impulse is telling him not to leave is absurd, considering that's the thing he'd most like to do. _Don't hesitate. He'll know._

Words flee his mouth before he thinks: "I suppose you'll have to take my word for it, which you should." He abandons his mind to intuition, tugging the bandanna down to uncover his face, allowing it to hang at his neck; no longer concerned about terrestrial things such as _what will I be breathing in?_ more than keeping himself breathing.

No reply. _It's not over._ His attention has wandered again, using the pipe to try to tie a knot into a vine, pacified for the moment. _Don't stop._

Graves approaches, one step after another, continuing after Nacht ceases his harassment of the foliage to watch him from the corner of his eye, stopping only when sound breaks between them— _swoosh!_ —like a hollow pipe cutting the air.

Which is, in fact, precisely what has happened.

The pipe is held with surgical precision; the jagged tip inches from the center of his chest.

His nerves are on fire; fingers curling beneath the sharp tip, wresting it from Nacht's grip, prepared for a struggle that doesn't happen. He furrows his brows once he finds himself holding it—it's heavier than he imagined.

Nacht observes with strange, still patience; making no attempt to stop him even as his palms tingle with the magic he needs in order to wield it properly, turning the sharp end of the weapon on him; mimicking the position he'd been put in—for the most part.

There are differences: he nudges the tip against Nacht's chest, off-center; regarding him with an expression filled with the absence of expression, if only because there are too many things to feel and he doesn't know how to begin experiencing them, let alone articulating them.

"Tch." Nacht closes his eyes, posture slumping from the rod-stiff thing Graves hadn't noticed it had become. "Nice." It sounds like he believes it: his voice contains a smile his face doesn't. "Right in the heart."

The pipe clangs against the floor after Graves pitches it, flinging as hard as he can across the room. It rolls a short distance before it's stopped by rubble. Permanently, perhaps, unless one day the whole floor collapses. It catches Nacht's attention: his lashes tremble, then lift into two slivers of gray; staring as Graves eliminates the distance between them.

He can see the faint curve of a smile on Nacht's mouth, which parts into something else when he leans in, tilting his chin to lock him in a kiss; one palm pressed against his chest in the place where the pipe had been; clenching into a white-knuckled fist as if to crush the life from his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

"Seem outta it."

The observation doesn't help. Neither does distance from the moment.

It allows hypotheticals to catch up, nip at his heels. Run him him up a tree, corner him with their questions: what if he'd left? Did it matter? Was there a right time—a wrong time? If he'd said anything differently—faltered under that oppressive pressure—would the outcome have changed?

Would they have walked out together?

His throat tightens (ah, there it is), seized by (that thought he's trying to avoid) recent memory. Shape that question into something different. Something he can handle. For example: had he misinterpreted something? (Perfect. That allows for a modicum of control.) But his heart isn't listening. It's too quick to pound, dedicated to what's shaping up to be its next marathon.

Instinct no longer urges him to flee, but he's run himself into a new desire: to split himself in two, leave the part that wants to stay with Nacht and take what he can salvage and never look back not even once ever just keep running and running everything all together like a sloppy run-on sentence with no regard for any sort of punctuation. Let that scrap of him run forever.

He flinches as if struck, jerking from the hand holding his arm above the elbow. He whirls his head to stare at Nacht, wide-eyed, unable to identify the meaning of his expression; how his own must look. Are his thoughts written on it? More than that, can Nacht smell fear?

"You alive?" Is he trying to figure out the same things? If something's changed? Has he ever felt fear? Regret? Anything?

"I don't feel well." It's his voice, but it feels far away—a memory of days before he could speak to more than cats.

Nacht's expression finds some inoffensive _nothing_ , locking him out and refusing to offer insight to his thoughts. "Good to walk?"

"I'll manage."

"Makin' a stop then. Let's go."

He would have liked to imagine he'd be brave in the face of danger, that he'd say the things he felt. _No, I would like to go home._ Perhaps even _I want to be alone_. Or _Why did you do that?_ Or _Don't you at least_ like _me?_

Instead, he says: "All right."

Is it?

  
  
  


The mug has a chip on the handle—a dull, harmless nick over which he rubs his thumb while he thinks.

He'd tried to refuse, insist he didn't need quite so large a drink, but Nacht never listens. This trick is familiar: he's trying to fool Graves into drinking more by making him believe he's drinking less. Endearing, the way it only happens with non-alcoholic drinks.

("Just do it," he'd mumbled. "You may as well kill me if not." Nacht had laughed, but the sound didn't beat into his brain—which meant he must have enchanted himself but left Graves to suffer. "Should take a class. Theatre idiots love that kinda melodrama," he'd said. "I don't want to hear that from you," Graves replied. "Just drink," countered Nacht.

Later, once he felt well enough to fix himself, he'd asked: why did he refuse? It wouldn't have taken long. It took longer to get water and even longer to get him to drink it. "Shouldn't use magic like that." That hadn't been what he'd expected. Pardon? "You human, ain't ya?" Presumably, unless there was some well-kept secret. "Pretend you're normal a sec. People got limits, right?" Yes, but where was he going with this? "If you wave away all that pain, then what?" The pain goes away, obviously. That's the point. "But the problem don't, so you don't learn a damn thing." ......was he telling him to learn how to drink? "Somebody had to.")

When he sips, it tastes...

"Don't look like that. Came from ethically raised bees."

He swallows. It's not the worst thing he's put in his mouth. He holds the rim against his bottom lip, eyes lulling shut while he inhales the scent of ginger. "From the same farm that provided those ethical eggs, no doubt."

"Ha! You catch on quick."

Fair enough. When it comes to the list of sins Nacht has committed against him, slipping honey into a drink is miles down, somewhere near the middle. Not only that, it makes him feel better—sitting here, curled up on this couch, nursing a ginger-honey concoction. It takes his paranoia by the hand, leads it back to familiarity. Reminds him who Nacht is.

Plates rattle in the kitchen, joined by the sound of running water.

Who is he? Someone who enjoys the ugly, imperfect, unpleasant and often inconvenient nuances that come with being alive. Who relies first on physical capability and then magical aptitude, unwilling to concede some unknown victory to non-witches for cleaning by hand. Someone who has left him unmolested and unharassed; who wouldn't let him make coffee because You Ain't Drinking That If You Don't Feel Good. Go Lay Down. (He didn't lie down.) Someone who made him not-quite-tea. Someone who, no matter what threat he had perceived, hadn't hurt him.

Perhaps it _was_ a misunderstanding.

In time, the faucet stops.

It would be unfair to form an opinion without asking again. He slits his stare, looking into the mug. "Nacht, what was the purpose of that visit?"

Liquid shivers in ripples of reddish gold. He feels weight sink nearby, keeping an uncommonly respectful distance. Nacht leans into the backrest, eyes closed, stretching his arms before folding them behind his head. "No reason. Didn't take you for the type t'get up ta all that."

That answer might be worse than Well, Truth Be Told, I _Was_ Going To Murder You. "I'm not."

"Didn't refuse though."

"Why would I?"

Nacht opens one eye, allowing his head to loll toward Graves in a slow, pointed fashion.

Graves appends: "I suppose there _are_ reasons I would decline, such as knowing you weren't truly going to show me anything."

That must be better. The eye closes. "Aw, that ain't nice. Showed ya somethin' interesting, kinda like a field trip."

"A field trip to an abandoned building by your apartment?"

"Don't take long for 'em t'get like, y'know. Once a window blows out an' you don't fix it..." He trails off, then whistles a dying note. "All over."

A long, slow sip. "You are still talking about buildings, yes?"

"Mmm? What else."

"I'm never sure with you. Since when have you broken into condemned properties?"

"Ain't exactly breakin' if it's open."

"I'd imagine the city would disagree.

"No harm in it. Like lookin' around."

The faint trace of a smile tugs at him. While none of this has provided satisfactory clarification, that isn't uncommon with Nacht and this conversation is more-or-less normal. It doesn't give him that feeling from before. "I think you're a liar."

"Me?" His eye opens again. "I'm the most honest guy you know."

"I think you enjoy being in places you don't belong."

A smirk twitches across Nacht's mouth, lingering for a moment before it vanishes. "Maybe a li'l."

Guilt simmers in his stomach—a feeling no amount of ginger can soothe. Nothing had happened. If it was something, then it wouldn't be nothing. So it must have been nothing—but this pointless line of thought is repetitive, old, and uninteresting. He ends it by inching closer, slumping his shoulder into Nacht's side for the support he wasn't aware he wanted.

One last sip. Whether it's the drink warming him or the arm slipping around his waist, he doesn't care to speculate. His lashes twitch, then shut the world out when he feels the squeeze—the weight of a cheek pressed against the top of his head, the words that follow. "Should sleep."

"I really shouldn't. I do need to get back."

"Li'l lady all alone?

"And hungry, I'm sure." A pause rife with hesitation. "You're invited, although I'll ask you not to break anything."

"We'll see how that goes."

Graves neither moves nor replies, content to exist; focused on the feeling of lips pressed into his hair, tickling his skin as they move, leaving a trail of kisses behind.

  
  
  


He reaches for her, compelling her with a voice like black gold. "Evenin', dear heart."

The food no longer holds appeal: she bursts into a trot, then slows to a casual stroll-then-stop once she's nearer, peering. Inspecting. Dracula may like him, but first and foremost: she is a Lady and must always be courted—but her standards with this one are a bit loose, inclined to slide. She finds the fact he's brought himself to her level (a sign of respect) and the white crook of his grin acceptable, sauntering the rest of the way over to him and his greedy fingers.

It's dreadful, but comforting. It means Graves isn't the only one.

Language such as this transcends barriers: _Hi_ and _Hi_ ; _I like you_ and _I like you, too_ ; _You're real cute_ and _Pet me properly!_ ; _I like you_ and _I like you, too_.

Ah, if only all communication was so simple. He'd surely die from boredom.

Nevertheless, it means there's no need for him to translate. Let them do what they will do for as long as she'll put up with him. He'll see himself out of his coat.

  
  
  


_You're actually friends?_ That question had come from a well-meaning nobody he never truly knew and whose face he can't recall. Nothing personal toward the young man, of course, but quite a lot of details from that era have been lost, swallowed in a tide of Nacht. Who Nacht used to be.

It had come after some conversation whose particulars he can no longer recall, but he can recall that at that point in time they had broken up for the—the—that time, whichever time that happened to be, who can keep track of them all? Time was longer in those days. In any case, what he'd said was: _Somewhat._

The reply: _All he does is piss me off._

_Well, yes, he does that. Often._ Graves had said. _You get used to it._

But few ever did.


	6. Chapter 6

Nacht's charm must have worn off at some point: when Graves looked to him, he was rising to stand—a creakless, well-oiled fluidity Graves couldn't recall possessing during the youngest of his days—and Dracula was nowhere in sight. Abandoned her position, left him to contend with that crooked grin slanted in his direction, splitting to say: "Think she likes me more 'n you do."

_If the glove fits_ they'd say in such days, long before the perpetuation of such a term was referred to as a "meme"—which he's never been quite certain how to pronounce. Perhaps he would have repeated those words to Nacht if that wouldn't have been an invitation to joke. (He'd felt better by then, he remembers. Already made the misguided decision that _this is fine_ , but he still wasn't up to such lighthearted exchanges.)

Instead, he'd said: "She doesn't know you as well as I do."

"Dunno," said Nacht. "Think she knows what I'm good for. Might be a li'l bit different though."

"A bit, yes. Do you intend to wear that all night?"

He can clearly recall the quirk of Nacht's brow, rising just-so in his way of warning—his way of asking _you didn't mean what you implied, right_? He also recalls the addendum: "Your jacket."

It was easy to get him out of it, but once he had it he'd said: "Gloves."

Nacht's expression changed then, bottom lip pushing itself out in less a pout and more belligerent skepticism, eyeing him as if he was making the request to Midas reborn, in the flesh, here and now. "Gloves?"

"I know you." He was feeling certain about that by then. "You'll touch me sooner rather than later." (Another thing about which he'd felt certain. _Feels_ certain.)

"Well, that's a given." No flourish, no hesitation, no shame. As if it was known to the All The Universe And All That Exists Within that was how things were going to be.

And perhaps it was known. Even he'd only objected to one thing in that inevitable future: "You aren't touching me with cattle hide."

Nacht flashed his white smile, then asked, "Cattle?"

"You know how those places run." Ah, his own confidence—foolish and impossible. It thought it knew things. That you didn't need facts to know the truth; that all you required was a tenuous grip on reality, and surely your so-called knowledge couldn't fail. "I'm sure your hands covered with a minimum of five dead cows."

If Nacht had known the truth about such things (he was the type: the sort that had crude and vast mental bulletins pinned with irrelevant facts for the sole purpose of proving you wrong) he didn't say. What he did say: "You don't know that's what they are. Could be goats. Or pigs. Or sheep. Or-"

" _Gloves._ "

Hell adjusted as it often did. Does. Too many believe Hell to be a stationary object, incapable of movement and change. One should always remember Hell has goods and will travel. It sets up shop wherever you'll allow it; oftentimes at a convenient location, waiting for your business. That day it picked up from its cozy spot at the center of the sun and relocated to the more temperate climate of his apartment. (It was no stranger here, but he might have known something was truly wrong if he'd seen it settling in for a long tenure.)

Nacht plucked his gloves off and passed them over without fuss, looking bored.

Their fingers brushed together when he took them. He'd failed to turn to gold—to anything—but he felt some tremulous weakness the touch introduced to his blood; the ripple like-but-unlike anxiousness—anticipation?—he'd liked and disliked in equal measures.

Why could he not maintain his grasp on anger? He held it one moment and it vanished the next. _It's gone_ , his mind would say without saying (the subconsciousness doesn't communicate quite like that). _I can calm down_. But then he'd find it leaping back into his arms five moments later like an energetic, misbehaved dog he didn't want.

He balled the gloves into the jacket with childish malice, returning to the coat rack to gingerly ("haphazardly" or "rudely" would have been uncalled for) drape it over the rack's head, as if the one inch of height his legs granted him over Nacht would render him unable to reach it.

Which might have made him feel better had Nacht understood the significance of a job poorly done on purpose. As it was, all he'd done was cant his head and say, "It don't work like that."

Perhaps he'd been bitter, annoyed by his own failure to ring on Nacht's _Now That Ain't Right_ register. Not in the way he wished. (He must, in retrospect, concede that had been one of his few truly positive qualities back then: he was rarely angry regardless of the situation. It's occurred to him more than once that Nacht might have been more tolerable if he had been angry more often; that might have been better than him grinning as if you were the punchline to some joke only he and God knew—if Nacht even knew how to distinguish himself from God in the first place.) "I believe I know how my own furniture works. I made it."

"S'posed ta go on all them li'l claws."

"Do you even own a coat rack?"

He'd paused to think. "Kinda."

Graves hadn't needed such pause: "Your floor lamp doesn't count."

"Now you're just bein' picky." Nacht lifted his hand—and that's where his recollection of conscious thoughts ends. The rest is bits and pieces.

He does know the bruise was an ugly strip of shadow cutting across the center of Nacht's palm; how nice it would have been to smear that smug look from his face; that he resented its reminder that today had existed; how nice it would have been to smear that smug look from his face; how much he'd identified with a body of old pipes hanging in a dead factory's interior; how nice it would have been to smear that smug look from his face; how his head felt like a shattered light; how nice it would have been to smear that smug look; how nice it would have been to smear; how nice it would have been; how _nice_.

It _was_ nice. Satisfactory when he'd heard the heavy _whumph!_ of Nacht's back colliding with the wall; the various pieces and frames that decorated it sent askew. How he'd relished the feeling of fire flushing his face as he glared at Nacht from across the length of his arm, spearing him to the wall with nothing but the palm splayed at the center of his chest, leaning as hard as his weight would allow.

Surprises were abound: the flutter of Nacht's lashes; how he thought they might have felt tickling his skin; the gravity that weighed that stare down while it looked into his—less like storms, more like volcanic eruption, relentless suffocation raining from the sky.

How he'd held Nacht's bruise with his other hand and pressed it with his thumb—how Nacht's eyes glinted when he twisted his hand and squeezed what he could of the offending thumb and the palm attached to it. How, in spite of feeling as if Nacht was pinching a nerve, he hadn't let go. How Nacht hadn't let go.

How he felt the bandanna tighten around his neck (more remarkable: how he hadn't removed it; why hadn't he removed it? There must have been a reason) when a fist twisted it and reeled him in; the strangled sound he doesn't recall but can picture himself making; the caving of his elbow that brought them together, the feeling torrid but not yet enough to meld them, make them into one.

How his lips had betrayed him—the first set to stake a claim.

How their eyes met, neither willing to look away.

How optimistic he'd been.

He wasn't a collection of pipes: he was Pompeii.

  
  
  


The path is strewn with casualties: belts unravel like DNA strands, torn in half then cast in opposite directions. An end table has fallen in battle, as have several ornate decorations on the wall. Shoes and boots and socks, uncoupled. Bandanna now abandoned. Pants truly in pairs, but not traveling together.

Palms on shoulders, bearing weight down. A command: "Sit."

Resistance: Nacht's stare flicks down, voice dripping _smug_ when it lifts again. "Gonna ask me to fetch?"

Graves doesn't rise to that occasion: he pushes harder till Nacht obeys and seats himself at the edge of the bed. He lifts his knee, knocking it into the solid wall of Nacht's abdomen; a frown etched into his mouth as he drives harder, because this isn't enough. A silent, steely demand: _down_.

Infuriating: Nacht's barked laugh when he allows himself to free-fall, lashing out to nab Graves' collar, determined to take him down or destroy his shirt in the attempt. Bodies collide—one with a lighter, breathier huff; the other with a fierce scoff—but Graves arches his back, wriggling and fussing, refusing to be held; preferring to hold Nacht between his knees.

And then he sinks, inviting himself into a seat that's no doubt more comfortable for him than it is for his perch. The hitch in Nacht's breathing isn't lost, it's filed neatly into his memory; safe among the rest of the things he wants to hear again later. Right now he's still irritated. His lids fall, looking down at him; both his palms pressed neatly against the stomach before him, bottom lip swollen with a sulk.

The unfortunate thing about making a point in such a manner is it requires your stare to stay fixed on the object of your lesson. Harder to do when the target audience is watching you with an expression filled with heavy-hooded fever; tongue slipping to trace their lips in a shape like hungry lust. It hampers the plan—and outright ruins it come the fondling of his thighs.

Warmth blooms—pressurized heat flooding his core, spreading higher and lower; infusing his frayed nerves with pleasant, tingling numbness, urging them to forget their irritation, or at least to carry it in a different direction. His blood's already enacted this new strategy: it's still burning, but it isn't reaching his right mind any longer.

Spitefully (he tells himself it's spite; it makes him feel better), he adds more weight—ah, add that gravel-laden groan to the file. It makes the inside of his head buzz, a feeling akin to intoxication.

It's appalling how quickly these things work on him. Glaring hinders more than helps, which is why—he tells himself it's why; this also makes him feel better—he lowers his eyes, staring at the band of dark skin exposed by a creeping shirt. He conducts a neutral examination, pressing his fingertips against it; firmly tracing ridges created by muscle, noting the indentations he himself doesn't possess.

He must be making a face. Nacht's voice flows, rough with mirth. "I kill your parents or somethin'?"

Forlornly: "Your body is beautiful."

The compliment bleeds some urgency from Nacht's half-open eyes. Not too surprising. He likes praise. "Aw! Thanks." Unspoken but clearly heard: _I know._

Graves' palm drifts higher and higher, bunching the shirt as it goes while he continues his lament. "Why is everything else positively dreadful?"

Terrible fondness floods the reply. "Can't have it all, kitten. You know that." Extra punctuation: more groping, this time at his inner thighs. "It's like that sayin' 'bout cake. Somethin' somethin', can't eat it an' fuck it, too."

He can feel his face shatter into full-blown despondency. A tragedy—the sort with statistics and hundreds of thousands of murdered hopes and dreams. He heaves a hard sigh, averting his eyes, unable to bear looking at Nacht and explaining this at the same time. "There has never been a saying about fucking cake."

In his peripheral, he sees Nacht's expression light like flashfire.

Oh, no.

"Sure there has! Hear me out a sec."

"No."

"I might'a done the order a li'l wrong."

"No, no. Nacht, please. Not now."

"Like, ya can't fuck a cake an' then eat it—"

"You're ruining this—"

"—'cos all you got after that's a mess."

"—like you ruin everything else!"

"Guess y'could if you're real persistent-like, or if you got a real big-"

_Slap!_ is for the sound his hand makes clamping over Nacht's mouth to shut him up. Graves stares, feeling the cheerful, persistent vibration of a hum continuing to intone words he can't make out but can imagine all too well: _dick, though you'd get more outta_ —he's not imagining this part. _Hell, if you're gonna go through all that effort, why not buy two cakes? Have 'em both the way ya want. If you're inna that kinda thing._

...

He feels his brow worry itself into a shape to match his frown, closing his eyes as he inhales a deep breath. A shame his hair isn't a tad longer, it would torment Nacht's chest if it was. If he's honest with himself, this familiarity is pleasant despite the context. The sort of thing that threatens to heat him back up again. How, exactly, had this attraction to such a disastrous person come to be? He isn't—wasn't—" _Mh_ -"

Fingers: in places they don't belong, taking advantage of his lapse in attention; kneading too-soft, torturous circles into him. Derailing his thoughts, detaching them from the engine; sending them tumbling down the steep mound of mistakes to join the other miles-long wrecks at the bottom. Warmth laps at his palm.

His breath shakes when he inhales and exhales, straightening his posture; withdrawing his hand from Nacht's mouth. He uses it to smooth the path behind him, bending obstacles that intend to keep him from retaking his seat no matter how much hotter—harder—it's become. Once settled he clasps Nacht's wrists, tugging them away. Trying to tame them; keep them at a respectable spot while he figures out precisely what he'd like to do.

The owner of the wrists clicks his tongue and seizes his hips instead, digging his fingertips in like dull-but-painless claws, as if concerned he might somehow lose him—a valid one, judging by the force driving against his body: a buck that might have thrown him had he not been firmly held in place.

Dark lashes flutter; his vision slipping in and out of focus as he angles his body toward Nacht's, arching his back again, this time not from a wish to escape his arms. He loses his interest in wrists, opting instead to clasp them over the backs of those that hold him, holding them in turn; listening to the quiet sounds of laboured breath—of restraint. He finds himself watching the rise and fall of Nacht's chest—quicker now—but his attention soon roams to the exposed stretch of his neck, courtesy of the way he's tilted it back into the mattress; the movement in his throat when he swallows what Graves imagines was a heart—but whose? Difficult not to be compelled by the way he tugs, beckons him to move; the billowing of his shaken, burdened sigh once he does oblige. The swelling strain beneath him kept from doing what it pleases only by a thin barrier of cloth.

That thought is pleasant and unpleasant—it would, after all, be painful without even the faintest pretense of preparation—but flattering, knowing how eager someone is to pound you at the pace of your heartbeat. 

Nacht's eyes slit, then seek contact.

It stirs Graves to move his hands again, smoothing them back up his stomach—the muscles recoil when he skims over the ribs, invoking a shudder (another small mercy: the monster is ticklish)—and then up the chest, taking the rest of the shirt with him. Nacht takes the hint, lifting his back from the bed while he takes over the business of removal, flinging it—somewhere. It doesn't matter.

When he leans back down, he pauses to prop himself on his arms. Graves can feel the eyes scrape over him, considering his own shirt, but likely something else: Nacht doesn't seem bothered in that respect.

The words are twisted with dirt and debauchery, rumbling like a deep growl. "Could get used to you up there."

Graves hesitates, frozen in a stare. No sharp retort. No reply at all. Not when every cell, every thought, every impulse is so desperately squirming.

Heavy, hot silence.

He scrambles to claw his shirt off.

  
  
  


Night darkens the windows. The moon is bright, the sky filled with as many clouds as he has thoughts—which is to say: none. He's stopped thinking, traded it for breathing. In with the good, out with the bad, in with the good, out with the bad—that's what he recalls hearing at some undetermined point in his childhood, but he'd never figured out what made the exhales bad.

No matter. He'll not figure it out tonight either. His eyelashes flit now and then with the dim twitches of not-quite-sleep. Dozing then waking, dozing then waking, dozing then waking, dozing then...

"Hey, honey."

One eye slivers with alarm. Darkness takes its time becoming a shape: the broad stretch of a back is in front of him, divided down the center by a spine. A valley between muscle.

Ah. He means Dracula.

"You're safe. We ain't doin' nothin'."

For a moment he was—well, never mind that. The back moves away from him, inching nearer and nearer to the edge of the bed, leaning and reaching to the darkness. Moonlight has cast a blue hue on the landscape of Nacht's body, uncovered and unashamed; welts and redness washed away till morning.

Sound rumbles—a voice murmuring words too quiet to make out, which is when it occurs to him he's privy to something significant: Nacht doesn't want to wake him.

He shuts his eye and turns his focus back toward breath. Slow and steady. Breathe as if sleeping. In with the good, out with the bad, in with the good, out with the bad, whatever that means and all it entails.

Breath like a mantra: let him remain awake to bear witness to this secret and allow him to keep this one of his own: the strangled, heavy ache of his heart.


	7. Chapter 7

Flakes of gold.

They twirl as if in a snow globe while he whirls the bottle, staring at the sluggish and shallow whirlpool he's made. Nacht is occupied with a different vice across the room, messing with what looks as appealing as frost-bitten moss in a jar. He snaps it here, dumps it in a dish there, and inevitably returns the container to its low, dark cabinet.

Quite meticulous when he's doing what he wants to do. It's a pity it has nothing in common with what _Graves_ would like to do, although he suspects once he's further down the bottle and Nacht is finished, their thoughts will reconvene, slurring toward the same destination.

Till then, he lounges on the couch, tilting his focus from Nacht's workings at the—the kitchen tray (no dining area in any meaningful sense; the apartment is much too small), looking to an end table in a corner and the button-covered machine sitting atop. New pieces. Almost didn't notice them. They fit in quite well, which says a lot for the decor considering the end table is a broken television set.

_407 to a resident with a 413._

A radio? 

_Said he heard what he thought were fireworks going off._

A scanner. What use does he have for that?

_Wants to remain anonymous but can be contacted by phone._

Whistling pierces the air.

Graves rests the bottle against his bottom lip as he glances toward the Nacht-shaped source of the sound. He seems occupied with what appears to be a wooden cigarette pack, grinding away at its insides.

He takes a drink, sifting liquor with his tongue, seeing if he can taste the gold before it goes down. Not so. Unforgivably pretentious. If you make a drink containing gold, should you not be able to taste it? Really. No standards, these companies.

Not much later, the absence of whistling recaptures his attention—just in time to see Nacht set fire to a match by striking his belt buckle, cupping one hand over it in protection from some imaginary wind as he dangles the small, bat-shaped pipe toward the flame, holding it in his mouth like he's lighting a cigarette.

"A shame you didn't set it on fire." Oh. His tongue is loose. Escaped the cat, it seems.

"Pff!"

Out goes the flame, doused by a half-sputtered hiss of breath. Nacht drops the dead match into the empty dish, mouth cutting a smirk despite the pipe—which he removes soon after, holding it between two fingers. "Damn! Gettin' all kinds of fucked by you lately."

"Are you?" But he can't lie. It feels good to win for once. Is this winning? This is probably winning. "I wasn't aware we switched."

"Counts if you're on top."

"Hmm."

The pipe returns to its place. Nacht taps another match from the wooden case, speaking between the stem. "Ain't gotta go worryin' anyhow." Another fire, courtesy of his belt buckle. "Know you don't eat cooked meat."

He replies by filling his mouth with alcohol and looking away. Casually. He's in no mood to defend the honour of his dietary choices.

Once the air begins to smell, he braves another look at Nacht.

_10-72 found under 10-34 with evidence of 51._

Smoke seeps from his mouth, pooling into a viscous cloud. Thin wisps split and drift away like tendrils. The air is heavy with autumn: burning leaves; nuts; dead trees; showy spices of dubious origin. An inoffensive smell compared to the others he's had the displeasure of scenting.

Nacht half-opens his eyes, cloudy like rain to come.

_Got another 13. Possible 10-30._

Graves mouths the bottle in the way of someone who's taken possession of it and doesn't intend to return it, making a sharp _pop!_ when he pulls away. His lashes lower while he reconsiders the gold flakes, tone level when he speaks. "You cheated."

"Mmm?"

"You didn't inhale." How much gold is left? Surely they couldn't have used much making this if you can't even taste it.

Laughter, coarse and thick—as good as an admission of guilt.

Long, deep silence.

This time, when Nacht exhales, the smoke disperses with his breath and vanishes.

He leaves the paraphernalia behind with no regard to clean-up, a grin slashing his face when he approaches—which Graves pretends not to notice, keeping his eyes on his bottle. How it looks when it floats away, plucked from his hand. Going to the far-off land known as the floor right outside of his reach. A solemn occasion. He passes it a longing look, which he's certain is at least sixty-percent for show. One can only blame Nacht for imparting such bad, dramatic habits.

"I'll let ya have it later," he says, and then Graves feels weight beside him, joining him.

Truth be told: he doesn't care much for it, that bottle. He cares more for the surprise and mild admiration he catches in Nacht's expression when his fingers undo his belt, picking the button like one would a lock—he fails twice. The third time is only a charm because Nacht helps him. Silently. As if awed by the fact it was necessary. Zippers are less challenging.

Graves leans—and feels the stroke of fingers against his cheek, pausing to lean into the palm; sponge all the affection he can from the gesture like a greedy, spoiled pet.

The touch lingers even after he's had enough: fingers comb through his hair, stroking slowly as he descends, finding something else to do with his mouth.

_10-22 found. 10-3, code 2._

  
  
  


"I need to leave, you know."

"Don't got to."

"I do have my own place."

"Here I thought ya shared."

"I pay rent there."

"Could do that here."

Graves snorts—a stifled, undignified sound that shakes his shoulders and has him prying at the arm around him, trying to free himself.

No good. The grip tightens. "Nice place I got."

"You _do_ manage to keep bugs out."

"Could have your own room."

"And displace your set? I wouldn't dare."

"Ain't gonna bite'cha. They'll share. Learn ta like ya."

"Enticing, but I must decline."

A long, exaggerated sigh heats the back of his neck. He squirms when Nacht buries his face there, tickled by the brush of his own hair. "Wouldn't work anyway," he mumbles against his nape. A stunning moment of foresight. When did he learn to think ahead? "Li'l lady don't do loud."

Oh.

The lights are all on, but even if they weren't it wouldn't matter. He doesn't need to see Nacht's arm pulling from him to feel the absence. Graves turns on his stomach, lifting his head to watch Nacht—who has rolled to his back, one arm bent at the elbow to use in lieu of a pillow.

Something must be wrong with him. The pleasant lit fog of liquor dissipated quite some time ago. There's no logical reason why such a simple statement—not even worded properly—should lodge a lump in his throat and twist some desperate longing in some previously unknown place within his chest. Or is it worse? Something more incriminating? A reaction born from looking at him after he's said such a thing.

He's nice to look at during these times—when the worst he'll accomplish is breathing; when his hair is ruffled and displaced, free from product after the last shower; the honest look of his face when his narrow, too-clever eyes are shut. It's as if his mind has cleared a table with one grand sweep of a long arm, flinging all the flaws and all the issues he has with Nacht from the surface, leaving nothing but the appeal that beguiled him in the beginning.

Graves sits up, turning toward Nacht for the very important purpose of crawling over him, crossing to the other side where he lies down on top of the arm that rests there; wedging his way between them. He ignores the tremor of laughter even if it disrupts the nice place his cheek has found between shoulder and chest.

Harder to ignore: "Hell you doin'?"

That's fine. He knows how to shut him up. "Are you complaining?"

"Nope." In fact, the arm he's displaced seems to have no trouble accommodating him: he feels it along the length of his back, draped around him in half of a hug.

He can still catch faint traces of burning leaves in the air, so he tilts his face to drown it out with a scent he cares more about; inhaling traces of salt, sex, Nacht. Almost doesn't want to breathe out.

Softly, he offers, "I'll be sure to tell her you thought about her."

Sleepy, not-all-there: "'preciate the good word."

"You hardly need one. I can't imagine how she could adore you more."

"She's got good taste."

No answer. Safer to plead the fifth. Wouldn't do to say anything that Nacht could use against him later. Even so, it's difficult to leave.

A little longer and he'll go.

  
  
  


The sky is mottled-white, pale and faint as if it's about to fall. Cool yellow weeps into the sky like infection. Red will soon follow the dribbling sun the further it streaks toward the horizon.

He taps the button—once, twice, three-four-five- _six-seven-eight_ times—willing the street sign to change; tilting a conspicuously cool glance over his shoulder in the fashion of one who projects _I am merely glancing over my shoulder for no reason other than to glance over my shoulder. Nothing more, nothing less. This is normal._

This isn't normal. His nerves feel taut; hackles raised like metal rods tempting a storm. The atmosphere feels as if it's about to crack from the strain; either bleed on him or bleed him. Perhaps he'll be back before then. Perhaps he'll be struck down. Only time will tell.

He taps the button again.

The sign of a desperate man, he thinks. One who knows better: these lights won't change no matter how often you press your appeals. Still, it gives him something to do while he waits for eternity to end.

And it does.

He hurries across the street.

  
  
  


The apartment is new: a studio in an often-busy section of town. Funny how these places seem derelict when you'd appreciate the rabble.

Lance has long since gone, pursuing better and brighter futures. Perhaps a world with a healthier sky. A better sun. A brilliant life. Something fancier than medicinal yolky metaphors.

He inserts his key and  
_snap_ s around, palm clenched around a wrist, gouging his nails into skin. The weight behind the blow strikes his balance and he stagger-steps back, bracing himself against the door. He steels his resolve, glaring daggers into a gaze like mercury, glittering with toxic intent. Silence, stalked by the split of his assailant's grin—the sharp shell of it. It's empty. Has its humanity found a place to hide, or did it crawl off and die? It's difficult looking long enough to tell.

Graves leverages his weight, lifting a knee to kick him in the  
upper leg. He moved.

Perhaps for the best. Who knows if he would enjoy that sort of thing now?

Nacht lifts his other hand—slower. Easier to catch, which Graves does. He gets the impression this is a trick, that he's being forced to touch him. That must be why nothing else is happening.

"You gonna invite me in?"

Too much is happening. "Since when do you require an invitation?"

"Been wondering that myself."

The answer gives savage, hellish chase to his heart. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Aw." The pitch is there but the tone isn't right. It rings hollow like it's been eaten from the inside. "Insult ta injury."

"If you-"

"I ain't _stupid_ , Graves."

Thoughts scatter like crows, each one stealing bits of brain and flapping far away. His eyes have cast off to some sideward direction, a silent plea to reality: _please, do better._ Nacht watches him like a wolf in winter, waiting for the fire to die before closing in.

Quiet for a moment, then a sneer: "You scared?"

"Of what?"

"Don't play coy. Say it straight."

"I'm not afraid _of_ you, Nacht."

"Then what? You done?"

"I didn't say that." Why did he say that?

"You didn't say _shit_."

A wince—the contempt in his snarl stings more than he thought it would. His eyes dart back to meet Nacht's, not wholly sure of the reason why and even less certain of how he must appear. 

What he does know is it was a mistake: he shouldn't have looked. Wouldn't have to live with the movement of Nacht's jaw when it tightens and sets; blurriness fogging the sharp edges of his glare, something fighting into focus as if somewhere, swallowed deep within that blackhole abyss, a climber is still alive, struggling to claw its way out.

He squeezes the wrists in his hands—when had his grip slackened?—and he can see from the corner of his eyes the way Nacht tilts his head just-so to get a better look at what's happening, as if stupefied by the gentle brush of thumb against bone. Dogs must feel this way when they're scolded then rewarded with the same breath.

It's too bad. He's never been a dog person.

He abandons the wrists, palms rubbing along the sleeves of Nacht's jacket; squeezing his arms right above the elbows. Nacht says nothing—the biggest surprise of all. "Is something the matter?"

Disorientation is palpable. "...ain't that kinda fight."

What makes him feel guilty is how guilt doesn't deter him. It has no jurisdiction here. "I know." Nacht's steadily stiffening posture—confused and cautious—can't even stop him from reaching out, fingertips pressing into his cheek, denting it. Softly, "You feel cold."

And then he frees him, turning to the door.

He can feel Nacht's eyes on his back.

Graves' sigh, hard and heavy, fails to relieve any of his burdens.

To the contrary: it adds them. "I suppose you should come in."

  
  
  


"Thought of you."

He shivers—the result of a combined assault: breath against his neck; a murmured confession close to his ear; the body fitting against his, trapping him against the wall. If not for his arms, his chest would be crushed to it.

Graves looks over his shoulder, seeking—there. It's there: an off-balanced, unfamiliar brand of wild, but it's better. Much better. He looks alive. Animated, uncontrolled. More than that: warmer. Nacht catches him looking, taking an undelivered invitation: he cranes his neck and tips his chin, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

For his part, Graves turns back to the wall to thunk his head there; screwing his eyes shut. Can't do those. Can't handle them. Not yet.

Murky and miscreant: "Had some real pretty things." The lewd-but-gentle swivel of a thumb; the fingers curled around him—teasing him. Making his hips jerk; trying to get him to whimper. "Tried not to do it. Thinkin' 'bout you. Didn't work."

" _Haa-_ "

Utterly absurd. It shouldn't stoke the desire, listening to your ex talk about the people with whom he's slept and how he couldn't keep from thinking about you while he was with them. Does he count as an ex if you let him do this to you? Let him in you. Whatever the case, he must forgive himself: he's certain it doesn't matter what Nacht says. As long as he says it like this, _I'm going to kill you_ is as good as _I'm gonna fuck you till you can't move._

"Wasn't as good." The words burn his shoulder, then hurt when he feels the bite.

Can't keep his lashes from twitching and his back from bending any more than he can keep the mewl spilling from his mouth. Would be easier to get Nacht to stop talking.

When he lets go, he wets the new wound with his tongue. A pause—and then again at that same spot. He must have drawn blood. Another shiver. He presses his cheek into the wall.

"Didn't sound as good either."

If this is flattery, he could do with less of it—more with moving. None of this pretense, this 'letting him get used to it', if that's what this is. He's used to it. As used to it as he'll ever be.

Nacht's other hand drifts up his stomach, settling on his chest to rip the gasp from his throat with a crude pinch. He arches his spine inward, forcing his hips into Nacht, as if trying to shove him away—fortunate that wasn't the intention: all it does is bring them closer. Deeper.

It's tragic to hear his own breath—how ruined it sounds, but he isn't alone. His body tenses and tightens, drawing a long, tattered moan that licks at his ear; raises his hackles and provokes a riot of gooseflesh. Spurs his hand to reach down, curling his fingers over Nacht's to urge him to touch harder—like this, not that.

He hears a warm, fond note of laughter—a quiet, charming sound that feels sweet on his neck.

  
  
  


Nacht has always been at his best after his body expunges its desires—or if not the desires themselves, the fluid that results from them; as if as long as any is left in him, he'll be rendered intolerable till it's all used up. The only peace ever guaranteed is the time needed to replenish the supply before the next assault.

Somehow, between everything and everywhere else, they managed to find the bed. Nacht feels deceptively sturdy: solid and persistent, but insecure with the way he refuses to release him. It's still warm. Feels good—physically. That tense, hair-raising feeling has returned, tingling his skin like a limb that needs blood.

Mired somewhere between post-coital haze and general desire, Nacht murmurs, "Don't leave again."

It isn't a demand. He wishes it was. It wouldn't hurt if it was.

Graves doesn't say anything. He lifts his chin, nudging mouth-against-mouth in a brief kiss.

Another kiss.

Another.

Enough of them and Nacht will forget he hasn't answered.


	8. Chapter 8

The crack emits from the wall. It lashes onto the ceiling and branches through crumbling stucco all by its lonesome 'til it fans like a delta with no water to spread itself in, trapped by a chronic lack of destination.

So he goes to the beginning: wall, line, delta.

Ain't the type to think on his back. Moving his eyes helps. Makes the thoughts go, though they don't always go right. Knows words—when and how to use them—but the visuals don't _do_. Bleed out here and there when he don't need them, but otherwise he's left with the empty echo of the words themselves, no grasp on the meaning they should have conveyed.

How many does he gotta hack up—scatter in a ring o'roses, arranged all neat and nice like fingers, limbs, and bones—before they summon what they're supposed to?

Something'll break. Only a matter of beating it enough.

Repeat: wall, line, delta.

  
  
  


Graves had long hair back when it all got wrong. Don't got a full picture no more, details are loose, but parts are burned like brands in myriad places like those myriad creatures he's read about in some what's-it-or-other. Point is it don't get lost. It ain't going nowhere: Graves on his back, all the lights in his and Lanny's place on (though Lanny didn't come around much no more), in bed, naked save the metal punched in places visible and where the sun don't get to peek.

His breath fell hard and hot, the whites of his eyes captured Nacht's attention more than the colours filling them, courtesy of his pupils: made them look black. Weren't all dark though; the piercings lit him up. He glittered like steel, stainless, and parted his mouth to sigh, snake bites sharp and shining.

Nacht wanted to wreck him. Thought about it when they first met, how he should get him alone, pin him to some wall or floor—wherever his back happened to fall—and see what shook out.

But that desire evolved. Should've figured when he started noticing details: the subtle furrow in Graves' brow as he closed his eyes; breath hitching when Nacht slowly, firmly stroked his palms down his chest-

"Don't," he fussed, squirming when fingertips tickled over his ribs, but stopped when he lifted his lashes and looked up, silenced.

What shut him up? Never figured it out. Didn't seem worth thinking about. Too occupied with skin, how it felt—felt _right_ , like his touch transformed flesh into its appropriate shape, the form it should hold.

Took his time. Didn't always do, but the fact he did at all might've raised some alarm had he used any of that time to think. Instead of doing anything else with those legs—downright lovely; shame he kept them covered—he'd smoothed the skin, rubbing up and down the length of his thighs, outer and inner.

When he looked up he found a low-lidded stare pinned to his hands, observing them with reserved impatience. The kind that had enough conscious control to think _what are you doing?_ and _hurry up_ were too inelegant to say, so he said it with his body: he bent a knee and thumped his calf against Nacht's back.

Nacht's laugh was light, breathless. Another sign. No reason for all that with somebody he regularly saw without clothes. Somebody he argued with more than he didn't. Ain't no reason he should snatch the breath right outta his lungs.

Graves put on his best face when he found he'd have better luck kicking bricks. His lips pursed a fine sulk when he sat up, tipping his chin as he leaned to give him a kiss, discreet like a shy kitten; cute 'til teeth sank into Nacht's bottom lip and tugged. He held on a moment before letting go, sinking back into the mattress, looking pleased with himself.

Then he was even cuter.

Remembers the heat when he angled to follow Graves down, pausing once he realised he'd fallen for it, collecting what was left of his good sense, resisting the carnal tide threatening to suck him under. Felt fondness when he watched that smug face; it crept into his voice when he drawled, "Cain't a guy take a li'l break? Lemme look at you."

Another blow with the calf. "You've looked long enough."

Wonder if he ever felt the same, that feeling like copper smashed against steel, each cell they rubbed on one another howling like chemical reaction. Ain't likely. Graves don't know what he did. Didn't know his touch lured the iron in Nacht's veins, had him feeling like nails on a magnet, making him think maybe it wouldn't be all bad to be blood itself. Get into his system, live by the beat of his heart. He'd know him then, in and out, unflattering and flattering. He'd know everything. All of him. No part would go untouched. Not even his mind could escape.

One hand took to wandering once he graciously obeyed, seeking a neglected friend between Graves' thighs, pausing to give it a cordial squeeze of encouragement, like saying _good work so far; keep it up_!

" _Ah_!" broke like surprise, hips jolting from the touch. Nacht took their lifting as an invitation, leaving the shaft to probe lower and trace a slow, lazy circle around already-slickened skin. Felt like a gift, feeling him shiver. He popped a finger in to check if anything had changed, rousing a _mmh_ and an exhale that shook in passing. 

Still good. Never know with those tight-asses. Might close you out if you ain't punctual.

Nacht canted his head, mouth hooked around a smirk that soon went white with teeth. Thought about his position, how he knelt on half-split knees between two pretty legs, guided himself to cock hard muscle against pliable, pressing but not pushing in; repurposing that hand to a better task once all was as it should have been. He used it to hold himself over Graves, looming. Imminent.

Thoughts dropped like wind-swept off a cliff, mind flushed red; words dripping like days baked in summer sun, low and rough: "You pray?"

Looked so good, so innocent when he glanced up and blinked those uncertain eyes. Warily, after a beat, he answered. "Not as such, no. Why?"

He reached his idle palm to Graves' face, cupping it; gazing at him through low lashes while he brushed his thumb against his cheek, regarding him like he was something precious. Poor sweet thing.

Then he withdrew, straightened his back and said, "Y'might wanna start."

Gotta give him credit: don't recall hearing him scream—not that time. Must've done a yelp or something like it. Ain't no amount of fondling to get a guy ready for that. What he remembers is the expression tied between shock and pain, jaw tightly set; eyes fluttering wide before screwing shut; the violent arch of his spine; the carefully shredded breath, shallow to avoid as much movement as he could.

Can still see how he trembled when there was nothing left to feed him. Feel the crazy-making heat he caused. How he left Nacht no choice but to dent his hips hard enough he'd wear spots later. The way he made time feel long and thick.

It weren't right. Shouldn't be somebody so imperfectly perfect.

Remembers watching his chest, fascinated by the rise-and-fall, waiting for it to resemble something stable; for the injured expression to subside. He bent forward once it had, noting the sheen to his damp black lashes; soon opening into that dazed, glossy stare he craved.

Made him release a hip and stroke his stomach, rub up the center of his body, curious if he'd hear objections on the way down. Hadn't heard any. Tender like gravel, he purred, "That what you like?"

Wasn't too fair not letting him answer, but he don't got regrets about pulling out and ramming him full before the question made sense. His cry rang sharp and clear, silver-rich, beautiful in sound and sight: Graves tossed his head back against the bed, lips parted in a gasp; expression not vacant but checked out, fingers tangled with blankets and sheets, grasping them like trying to hold onto scattered thoughts.

Gotta give praise here, too: that was a great mattress. Put up a tough fight. Took a while before sex started to creak, done in by the force of love. If that's the name to put to it.

But even if that wasn't it, it had to be close. Boiled hotter than lust when Graves crushed his legs around him, stirred sensations old and erratic—raw, bloody things that messed his head. Didn't think much of it then. Couldn't have thought of much else while he fixed to free those starved, aching whimpers from the deep place where Graves had hidden them.

Fists hammered his back, then bloomed into claws. The pain they carved had him hissing between his teeth, lurching to sink them into the flesh above Graves' shoulder. It provoked another cry—guttural, mired in some altered state that no longer distinguished pain from pleasure.

Remembers the metal taste in his mouth, how it failed to register when he pushed back to a kneel, swiping blood from his lips with his tongue. Claws didn't give him up easy: they dug in, scraping over his sides, regressing to politeness only once it was clear he'd gotten away; gingerly plucking at his forearms before settling on his wrists.

Knows he meant to do something when he sat up, but whatever that was has been replaced by the sight of Graves shepherding one of his hands, steering it toward the right path. He pressed Nacht's palm over his navel, guiding it along a route it had already traveled—up the stomach, the center of his ribcage, his chest. Surprising at first because he would have thought the right destination was further down—and then because Graves gently squeezed Nacht's fingers around his neck.

Could've doused him in gas and pelted him with lit matches. Would've scorched him less than when he looked to meet Graves' eyes and found them shut, his head tilted to the side, mouth parted and panting, face flushed like fever.

Nobody can claim he ain't merciful: he took pity, did it nice; rocked his hips against Graves, swaying his body in a slow rhythm, grinding the right places. Made him mewl as he choked him, index finger and thumb firmly dented against the sides of his neck, cutting oxygen but not air. Got him all hot and bothered by gripping the base of his cock, firmly kneading up to its head, smearing the clear fluid there.

Graves kept his eyes closed, chest heaving; desperate for breath in spite of being able to breathe. He groped blindly until his hands found what they could of Nacht's legs, latching onto them as if trying to ground himself while his body began to move outside his control; his voice a mournful moan broken into gasps and words like a hymn: _fuck_ , _oh god_ , _fuck-_

Can't claim he don't restrain himself either. Took a lot of control, holding back while holding Graves' neck till he felt him start to slip. A blink longer and he'd have been out. Lucky he had someone so devoted to his asphyxiation, who let him recover before squeezing again, pumping him while wondering how hard he was going to come.

Didn't get to wonder too long before he felt it on his hand, interrupted by the low growl rolled from his own throat, feeling tense muscle get tighter around him, puffing a sigh when it was over.

Don't make no sense why nobody thinks he's considerate. Gave Graves a break despite his personal aches throbbing while sheathed in a too-tempting body. Didn't keep touching anything he wasn't supposed to either. Nacht watched him rest, lifting his sullied hand to lick it clean—a little sweet. (Meant he hadn't gotten trashed or compromised his diet last night.)

When he was finished, he said: "Hope ya didn't get too comfortable there."

Graves' chest went still as if he was holding his breath or somehow forgot Nacht wasn't done with him.

Real pity about not finishing at the same time, but life ain't perfect. Graves didn't complain much until Nacht's weight sank into him as if trying to fuse their bodies, rubbing against parts not quite ready for such ardent attention. Provoked different kinds of cries. "No, no, no!" Ahh, always sounded good when he said that. "Nacht!" That, too. "Stop—"

Did eventually, when he finished.

  
  
  


Not easy to forget the sleepy lull of lids when they lowered, nodding like narcolepsy before he caught himself and widened them again; drunk off the chemicals in his head. He lifted an arm and slowly, with great effort, dropped his hand on Nacht's shoulder like a bomb, then moved to mash his cheek before it found his hair, fluffing him like a dog, not at all bothered by the wound bitten above his shoulder. Might have liked it better if it was on his neck.

Lot of nights ended like that, docile in a bed, on a couch, in a chair, on the floor, in a bathtub—wherever else. Could've been something like love, figuring that wrecking him meant he'd stay longer, but it had to be love once he'd started doing it not only out of lust but the desire to keep him when it was over.

He recalls thumbing Graves' lip, grazing the tips of his labrets, wondering what would happen if they punctured his skin. Stabbed little holes all through his chest and neck. Bleed, sure, but what next?

"What?" Graves said, his tone alert, having failed to fall asleep. His eyelashes cast cute little shadows on his cheeks.

"Nothin'."

"I can feel you staring at me." His tone hadn't been displeased.

Truth wouldn't have done any good there, which was why he said: "Thinkin' how sweet you look."

"I'll not encourage your narcissism by saying something similar." But he didn't sound displeased then either.

"Cain't do that if you wanted. You ain't lookin'."

"I know how you look."

"Might'a changed since you last saw."

"I'm sure."

"That's the point, ain't it? You bein' all sure when ya don't know."

"You haven't moved since I last got up."

Couldn't fight that. "Wouldn't'a moved then if you didn't have them shaky li'l lamb legs."

"Hmm. Deflecting the blame, as usual."

"Thought you were gonna fall."

"I suppose I appreciate it, considering that _would_ be your fault."

"Aw, you're gonna make me blush with all this flattery."

"Sometimes," Graves steeped his sentence, words grim with the sincerity of death. "I like you."

"I like you all'a time."

  
  
  


Remembers his mouth, the blood from a wound he'd bitten into Nacht when one particularly heated fight turned salacious. Occurred to him he'd have no complaint if Graves tore his chest open and bit his heart instead. Only regret would be if it killed him. Wouldn't get to see how he'd look all done red.

He's the right colours. Would wear it better than anybody Nacht's seen. Ain't only on account of them being beaten. Graves would look good like that, too. Would win, no contest. Never gonna be anybody who looks better with his blood on their skin.

Not a fair comparison though. All the people he's seen dripped their own and died, failing to assert their desire to win and live.

But that's how it goes. Lose your passion, lose your life.

Funny how those memories don't do much for him no more.

Back to the beginning: wall, line, delta.


End file.
